To the person who refuses to get off the phone with me while I write this, who is border line sick from countless nights of talking until just before sunrise, whom I hope will drift off to sleep listening to my keyboard click and my spotify hiss atmospheric tracks. Thank you for teaching me Kintsugi.
We are all broken over time, she said. Fissures criss cross the glazed porcelain of youth and in time cracks appear from the years of use, and misuse. Impossible is the thought of being here in life for so long without being chipped at least once, or half a dozen times. Now what pray tell do we do with the broken?
She said "You fill them with gold". Kintsugi. And this sounded so foreign to me. To illuminate the damage of my existence with something precious was nothing I had considered, nor knew how to begin doing. For years I would half-repair, with cheap modeling glue and painted over in mismatched tones. Until I simply felt like the sidewalk free pile after a town wide yard sale. Nothing anyone would want.
But she wouldn't have any talk of that. My cracks were part of my story and not to be redacted. I was not an abstract, but a trilogy of experiences rich in complexity. She was not one for a disposable man. She did not trade up. Her old soul held onto what she valued, as worn and weathered as it had become, and she would repair by filling the broken parts with something precious.
Tonight she proved herself true. When she saw the anxiety in me set off by PTSD, a survivor of bloody battles in an unholy war of the roses, she reached for her gold. Doing what we do best, talking, she slowly melted that gold with her admiration of all the cracks. "Every crack tells me a story about how you turned into the one I want". She talked about hesitation and inspiration. She talked about art galleries and high heels. She listened intently and I knew her mind was furiously taking notes. She coughed and her voice was still raspy from sickness. Regardless, she went on talking anyway sounding like eloquent philosophy. Indeed she spoke magic, lessening the priority of her exhaustion behind her priority to fill me with something precious. And just like that she gently poured her gold into the cracks, and made something ugly into a delicate art that was part me, and part her.
Kintsugi. She filled me with gold. Not to hide away my broken parts as shameful flaws, but to honor the experiences of my existence as something to be celebrated. To the person who deserves the world, thank you for teaching me something new. My cracks are beautiful filled with your gold.